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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26705695">Tripping</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/amukmuk/pseuds/amukmuk'>amukmuk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, and aayla is just trying to distract him, bly is just really itchy, established blyla</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:20:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>796</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26705695</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/amukmuk/pseuds/amukmuk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Torn blacks have negative consequences.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>CC-5052 | Bly/Aayla Secura</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Tripping</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Oh my,” Aayla says upon entering Bly’s room in the medbay. She had </span>
  <em>
    <span>heard</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but she can’t say that she is </span>
  <em>
    <span>prepared </span>
  </em>
  <span>for what lays in front of her currently, looking positively displeased. From what she understands, it had been a simple recon mission through the terrain of Felucia - they can never seem to get away from this blasted planet - and had resulted in the small recon team sprinting through the forests while being chased by a herd of native wildlife. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bly </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> have given the order to kill them all, but he knows how much she adores all living beings, and had decided that running away like a spooked eopie had been best. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, much to his chagrin, he looks very much like a tooka that has stepped in a puddle. His nose is pinched in disgust, his head turned away from her and his hands… well, his hands are wrapped in oven mitts and then taped at his wrist to prevent him from getting any ideas of removing them. He is out of his blacks, his tanned skin covered in angry splotches and those splotches covered in a shiny gel to alleviate itching. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not a word,” he grumbles, still refusing to look at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I just can’t take you seriously like this,” she chuckles, falling into the chair next to the right of his bed. He looks miserable, but in the adorable sort of way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns his head to the left, like a petulant child. “I don’t want to talk about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is honestly quite impressive that the pollen managed to get under your blacks but no one elses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grumbles. “You know, I am a trained </span>
  <em>
    <span>ARC</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I am a Marshal </span>
  <em>
    <span>kriffing</span>
  </em>
  <span> Commander, if I wanted these mitts off, I would find a way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will give you two options,” she sits forward, holding two slender fingers up to him. “You can either explain how the pollen got under your blacks, or how Indy managed to get the mitts on you, Mr. Marshal-Kriffing-Commander.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head whips to her and he glares, but its effect is lost on her. She swallows down a giggle. His normally sharp cheekbones are nonexistent due to the swelling caused by the hives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks away. “I tripped,” he confesses to the blanket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You tripped into the mitts?” She grins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glares at her once more. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I was looking behind us, to make sure the </span>
  <em>
    <span>stampede</span>
  </em>
  <span> was a safe distance away and I kriffing tripped over a rock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She arches an eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which resulted in my blacks getting torn and the pollen getting in. There. Happy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smirks. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” he keeps his eyes trained on the blanket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well rest assured, my questioning has ended.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grumbles and uses his mitt to scratch at his neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glares at her once more. “You’re lucky I love you. Remember, I could have these mitts off and be after you in seconds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shouldn’t say it. She really shouldn’t, but she can see the playful twinkle in his eyes and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>need a distraction from the itching. “Are you sure you want to do that? You may trip again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh now you’ve done it,” he tosses off his blanket and in just his shorts he chases after her in the medbay, yanking the tape off of his wrists with his teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She darts through the beds of medbay, encouraged by the whooping of other injured men. Glancing over her shoulder, she ensures that the commander barreling after her is a safe distance away when suddenly her feet are no longer underneath of her and she is skidding to a halt on her stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slows to a stop above her and puts his splotchy hands on his hips. Rolling to her back, she looks up at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do your words taste, </span>
  <em>
    <span>General</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She groans but he helps her up anyway, because as much as they can pretend that they are irritated, or unbearably silly, the truth is that they always have each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He helps her up effortlessly and she smiles when Indy comes charging out of the medic office. “It’s called </span>
  <em>
    <span>bedrest</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Commander!” He cries, exasperated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I know, I’m going there,” Bly smirks, taking advantage of a free moment without mitts to scratch his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll go with him, Indy, tape his oven mitts back on,” Aayla smiles, shooting Bly a playful look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no you won’t,” he says as they walk back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps I will simply trip you into the mitts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you can be more creative than that,” he says when the door to his room whirls shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re right,” she grins. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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